


Return

by dofunklethegrunkle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anxiety, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Reunions, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:19:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8459923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dofunklethegrunkle/pseuds/dofunklethegrunkle
Summary: Ford comes back from his trip around the world with Stanley and finds you in the midst of an anxiety attack. Fortunately he knows how to calm you down.





	

Things are falling apart again.

They never really go away. The depression. The anxiety. Their presence is constant, always lying in wait somewhere at the back of your subconscious, threatening to make themselves known. Sometimes you can go for weeks are barely feel them. You can finally breathe, finally function, and a part of you begins to believe that at last things aren’t just getting better – _you’re_ getting better.

That’s when they make their move. They usually appear hand in hand, and if one arrives alone the other is always sure to follow. It’s the tiniest things that trigger them. Sometimes it’s an irritating tone in some stranger’s voice, or a newly discovered chip in the plaster of the wall in your small living room, or receiving a sandwich from some deli and getting pickles when you specifically asked for your meal without. And you’re too nervous to ask for a different sandwich, so you pluck the pickles off yourself. But the taste still lingers, soaked into the bread.

But they don’t come all at once, never in a sudden onslaught. They build, those little irritations, small inconveniences, stacking up on each other one after the other until one day you wake up and even getting out of bed seems like an impossible thing to do.

And the very worst part of it is that those emotions are so familiar that you barely notice them until they’re at their worst, tearing a hole through your chest.

 

Today is a particularly bad day.

There are bills to pay. Shopping to do. Laundry to start. Dishes to wash. Homework to complete. You have a test next week and you’ve barely studied. Last week Soos invited you over for dinner tonight with himself and Melody at the Mystery Shack, and you had accepted like a fool. It is small consolation that you hadn’t known when you’d accepted his invitation that things were going to get bad again.

You didn’t make enough at work today. You’re forty dollars short on the money you need to pay the bills that have been sitting on your counter for three days now, taunting you, and Susan cut your hours at the diner a few weeks back because Gravity Falls just isn’t busy in the winter. That’s why you got the job at the diner, because of the tourist off-season. Soos didn’t need you at the Shack, but you still needed money. You hadn’t realized when you’d settled down in the summer that the town relied so heavily on tourism.

You go into the grocery store and buy only the essentials, skipping over things you can hold off on, calculating in your head the minimum amount of food you can eat a day to function. Even then, you still spend too much. You do the math on your budget. You spent less than what you allocated yourself for groceries, at the very least. Ten more dollars towards the bills.

Still thirty short. The anxiety gnaws at you from some unreachable place in your stomach.

You hate your apartment. It’s a mess. Empty dishes with crumbs on the coffee table, dirty dishes piled in the sink because you can’t afford to fix the dishwasher right now, clothes that need washing strewn haphazardly about. Why is it like this? Why did you let things get this bad? Why can’t you get your life in order?

Everything is chaos. Your mind, your apartment. Your life. It’s getting hard to breathe, and you can feel your ears buzzing. Like you’re underwater.

Like you’re drowning.

You trudge to your kitchen, working around bowls and utensils on the counters. You can’t bring yourself to look at the envelopes on the counter at the end, can’t bear to think about the bills. You won’t be able to pay one of them. But what do you sacrifice? Not like you can skip the rent. Water? Electricity? Heat? No, too essential. Why the hell didn’t you find an apartment complex that paid utilities?

Your cell service. You can sacrifice that, you decide. With WiFi you can access Facebook messaging, and you have the landline in your apartment. The complex provides that, there’s no additional fees attached.

You slam cupboard doors and wrench open the refrigerator, thrusting groceries into it. Your fridge is a mess too, but at least that mess is contained. You shut it roughly.

Maybe things would be better if only _he_ was here. Ford. You understand why he had to leave, know that it was important to him, to go off on that voyage with his brother. He calls you whenever he and Stan, your old boss, his brother, get in range of cell service. You talk to one another for hours until finally, reluctantly, one of you has to go.

It’s usually him.

As you bite your lip, wondering whether to do laundry or dishes, you notice your answering machine’s little light in the corner flashing. A message. Your heart skips. Ford hasn’t contacted you in a few days, and he usually calls your landline since he knows you don’t have to pay for those minutes. If you missed his call you’ll hate yourself.

You punch the button and listen anxiously, gathering up clothes. A message from your dad telling you he’s taking your mum on a vacation to Florida. Then a reminder from your landlord that rent is due tomorrow. Your stomach sinks.

The third message is blank. No sound. Nothing. Someone must have called on accident. You’re probably listening to the inside of someone’s pocket.

You stop in the middle of your living room, standing, listening to the silence. After a couple of minutes the message times outs. The machine clicks.

No more messages. A part of you, a very small part, is relieved. You didn’t miss his call after all. But then you remember that means that he didn’t call at all.

Somehow that’s worse. And just like that, tears start to roll down your cheeks.

 

The buzzing in your ears has increased in intensity. It’s become a dull roar, like the static that used to come on the television after a videotape ran out. Your chest is tight. Your stomach is churning. Suddenly nothing is manageable. There’s too much. Time is moving at twice its normal speed and you've fallen too far behind to catch up. Dishes will take too long. Laundry even longer. You have three assignments to do, and that test is looming over you like a cloud. You have to do all those things. You have to pull yourself together. Soos has invited you to dinner. You can’t fall apart.

You can’t let anyone know, can’t let anyone see the cracks, the tiny fissures you’re certain are spreading over your skin like spider webs. Proof that you’re about to break. More than anything you’re terrified you’ll shatter apart, like fine china, and there will be no hope of repair.

In the back of your head, you hear the memory of a chant. Humpty Dumpty. Couldn’t be put back together again. You’re afraid of being just like that. You’re even more afraid that instead of falling, you’ll throw yourself off the wall voluntarily, just so you don’t have to feel like this anymore.

 

The knock at the door startles you. You aren’t expecting anyone. Hardly anyone ever visits. It’s probably just the landlord, looking for the rent money. You look like shit, still in your diner uniform that has smatterings of food on it, eyes puffy and skin blotchy from crying. But you just don’t care what that old man thinks. Let him know you’re distressed. Maybe he’ll go easy on you next month when the time to pay rent comes around again.

You wipe sloppily at your eyes and cross the room, dirty clothes still wrapped in one arm, and wrench open your front door, fully expecting to greet the landlord sweetly, like you always do, hoping if you butter him up he’ll give you some discount. He never does, but you think you might be wearing him down.

But the face you look into when you open the door isn’t your landlord’s, and just seeing him shuts you up. You stare at him, your mouth gaping like a fish’s.

Ford. Ford is here. He’s on your doorstep, grinning eagerly, looking scruffier than when you last saw him but still handsome. His grin melts rapidly when he sees the clear evidence that you’ve been crying recently. “What’s going on?”

Those probably aren’t the first words he wanted to say to you upon his homecoming. You don’t care. You’re happy to see him – overjoyed, in fact – but just at the moment that happiness is taking a backseat to the crippling anxiety of realizing that this is yet another thing you’re going to have to deal with.

So you brush it off, retreating back into your apartment and wiping furiously at your eyes with your free hand, turning your back pointedly towards him as you reply. “It’s nothing,” you say, though even you know your voice sounds unconvincing. “My contacts have been bothering me lately.” You go back to picking up clothes, distracting yourself, giving yourself an excuse to not look at Ford until you’ve regained your composure.

He doesn’t say anything in response, and you’re grateful for his silence. He knows you’re lying, and he knows that you know he’s aware that your issues aren’t with your contacts. But he also knows you. He’s seen one of your meltdowns before, a few nights before his departure. Then he was flustered, trying to help, but his constant babbling just made you feel worse. That night you’d felt guilty for making him worry so close to the day you’d be separated for an indeterminate amount of months.

He lets you wear yourself out, waiting patiently, keeping an eye on you. He follows you to the laundry room, watching silently as you throw in a load and start a wash cycle, and then trails you to the kitchen, where you force your sleeves up your arms and start handwashing dishes. The water is scalding, but you don’t bother fiddling with it. You want to feel the pain. You want to distract yourself further.

Ford dries the dishes you stack next to the sink, putting them away for you. He’s been in your apartment only a few times, months ago, but it seems he still remembers your kitchen layout. Your hands move faster and faster, your ministrations getting sloppier. Ford stops putting dishes away, because the ones you’re stacking aren’t really clean. Thick, hot tears are rolling down your cheeks again – you can’t stop them. Your breathing is haggard, shallow, and your hands are red and raw. All that’s left is a mug, an old white thing you bought for a quarter at some garage sale months ago. You wipe at the inside, perfectly aware your efforts aren’t sufficient to actually cleaning it out, and reach to place it on the counter next to the stack of clean-but-not-really dishes you placed there earlier, but you fumble. The mug slips out of your hand and there’s no time to react. It crashes to the floor, breaking into a dozen pieces.

You stare down at the shards through your tears, holding your breath. You hiccup. “Like Humpty Dumpty,” you whisper on a shuddery exhale, knowing how insane you sound. And then you breathe in, a sharp gasp, and it’s as though that breath breaks whatever barrier has been keeping all your emotions in.

Without hesitation, Ford sweeps you into his arms, lifting you right up off the floor like some story book princess, which is stupid because you’re the furthest thing from it. You’re dressed in a shitty, dirty uniform and everything around you is falling apart.

Except for him. He’s sturdy, cradling you close to his chest. He carries you out of the kitchen, swaying softly as he walks, and takes a seat on your couch, keeping you in his lap and wrapping both arms tight around you. One of his hands is supports your back, splayed between your shoulder blades, the other on the back of your head, his fingers getting tangles in your hair as he pulls you closer, closer. His chin is resting on the top of your head, so you feel his jaw move when, finally, he speaks. He whispers reassurances, the same ones, multiple times. “I’m here,” he mumbles, rocking his body, and by extension yours, gently back and forth. “You’re not alone.”

Ford doesn’t promise that it’s okay. You appreciate that. It isn’t okay. You both know things aren’t okay. Maybe, eventually, they will be. But right now they aren’t, and you like that he isn’t just saying cliché things, things you both know aren’t true.

You clutch at his jacket – an actual jacket, not the trenchcoat you had seen him wearing when you first met him – squeezing the fabric so tightly that your fingers leave divots in the fabric. It’s soft, smells a bit like saltwater. You wonder if he’s stopped anywhere since docking, or if he rushed straight to Gravity Falls.

Straight to you.

Your ear is pressed to his chest, and as your sobs start to die you begin to make out the sound of his heart. It’s a steady thrum, though it’s going faster than is normal. You've probably scared him. He’s worried. But as you listen, it begins to slow. Yours does too. You’re calming down, and he calms alongside you. You concentrate hard on that sound, his heartbeat, using it as your anchor as you take in everything he is. It’s been so long. His arms are a little stronger now than the last time he held you, his chest a bit harder, but the tenderness with which he holds you is just like it was before he left. He smells the same, like old books and sandalwood. To you, it’s the most comforting scent in the world. You hadn’t realized how much you missed that until right now, breathing it in.

When you feel safe to speak, sure your voice won’t break on another sob, you whisper, “I missed you.”

You feel some of the tension release from his muscles. He was probably much more worried than he was letting on. “I missed you too.” You feel his lips brush against your forehead. Kissing him vigorously full on the mouth is nice, but there’s something to be said for forehead kisses. They make you feel cherished.

He lowers his head until his face is resting somewhere in the crook between your shoulder and neck. He takes a deep breath. Maybe he missed the scent of you too, though right now you imagine you smell strongly of pancakes and French fries from the diner. You wish you’d changed out of this blasted uniform. “What going on?” he asks again, the same words he greeted you with at your door.

You sniffle, not sure how to explain. The dishes are done now – sort of – and the laundry going. You did your shopping. All of a sudden all the anxiety you felt about time and the long list of things you needed to do feels incredibly stupid. What’s left? Bills. Schoolwork. That’s not a very long list anymore at all. You imagine that, since Ford is here, that Stan is at the Shack and therefore dinner with Soos and Melody has been cancelled. “I got overwhelmed,” you mumble, sure that your cheeks are turning red. “I felt like I had so much to do and there… there just wasn’t any time.”

Ford makes a mumbled noise of assent, lifting his head and taking a good look at your face. You can’t be attractive right now, mascara smeared down your cheeks and eyes puffy, nose red. But he’s looking at you like you’re an angel, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He brushes your hair out of your eyes. “I understand,” he assures you. “Was that everything, though? You were in a frightening state for a bit there.”

You bite your lip. “It’s just… I don’t know. I thought I was okay for a while there. I missed you, and that was normal, but yesterday it just felt like nothing was ever going to get better. And I just wanted to hear your voice or something. I don’t know. The last few days I’ve either been sad, or I haven’t felt anything at all.”

Ford sighs and gives you a reassuring squeeze. For you it’s still not tight enough. “What do you need to do?” he asks.

You swallow hard. “I need to finish my laundry.”

“It won’t be ready to go to the dryer for at least another half hour,” he says, his voice both analytical and comforting. “What else?”

“The dishes aren’t done yet.”

He shushes you, grazing another kiss to the top of your head. “Most of them are.”

“My bills aren’t paid. Shit, I can’t even pay all of them,” you mumble into the fabric of his jacket.

“Are they due tonight?”

“No.”

“We’ll look at them tomorrow, then. When you feel better.”

You silently consider whether you should debate that, but ultimately decide that he’s right. “Okay,” you whisper. “But I have assignments to do.”

“When are those due?”

“A couple of days. And I have a test next week.”

Ford sighs, rubs circles in the small of your back. “What class is your test in?”

“Social Psychology.”

Ford snickers, which surprises you somewhat. He’s been nothing more than sympathetic up until now, but you fear he’s somehow mocking you until he says, “Don’t even be concerned there. You’ve been telling me for weeks that’s your best subject.”

“But my assignments are in Philosophy and Native American Studies.”

“How long will those take?”

You think it over. You need to write a couple paragraphs based on some article you’ve only half-read for Philosophy, and the Native American Studies assignment is a short-answer worksheet. Before, when you were overwhelmed, you thought they would take forever. Now you realize you’re probably looking at merely an hour, maybe two. “A couple hours.”

Ford nods, thinking it over. After a couple moments he stands, lifting you up and propping you on your feet. His hands cover your shoulders, his forehead resting on yours so you’re looking into his eyes. “Here’s what we’ll do. You go get out of that uniform and put on sweats or pajamas, whatever you want to make you comfortable. I’m going to take care of something very quickly, and then I’m going to make dinner. While I do that, you are going to sit down and do one of those assignments. Not both; just one. And after dinner, we’ll go from there. Alright?”

You purse your lips, trying to keep from crying again. This time it’s not anxiety or sadness overwhelming you – it’s gratitude. Affection. You missed this man like you would miss one of your limbs. You have no idea how you functioned without him for all those months. “Yeah,” you say stiffly. “That sounds good.”

He smiles, and instantly you’re more at ease. You know having a boyfriend over twice your age is unorthodox, some might even say debauched, but you don’t care. No other person in the world could make you feel this secure, safe, well cared for.

Sure, he talks about a lot of old nerd stuff you have no clue about, but you love the way his face lights up when he does. And he takes care of you. He loves you. He’s told you so, more than once.

When he releases your shoulders, you miss his hands. Jesus, you still miss him even though he’s standing in front of you. Maybe a part of you believes you’ll wake up and he’ll still be gone, and there will still be no message on the machine from him. You’re even a little scared that when you slip into your bedroom to change, he’ll disappear.

But you do so anyway, because you really do want to be out of this dreadful uniform. Ford keeps his word. You do wonder what he needs to take care of, though, as you slip into the hall and then your bedroom. As soon as you go into the room, you hear your front door open and shut. Ford has gone somewhere, but he’s sure to be back. He promised you he’d make dinner. Deciding to try not to worry so much about his absence, you go rooting through a drawer until you find your softest sweatpants and a sweater two sizes too large for you. Your favorite mopey clothes.

Peeling off your uniform is transformative. It’s like taking off a second, uncomfortable skin that’s been bothering you to the point of agony. You haven’t heard the door again yet. You have no clue where Ford went or how long whatever he needs to take care of will take. You don’t trust his judgement on length of time anymore, not after a few incidents from before he left when he misjudged the time he had so severely the both of you missed two movies on separate occasions and even a large scale production that you’d driven to Portland to see together, arriving when the show had nearly finished, and had been forced to drive back to Gravity Falls a bit sad and defeated.

You decide to take a quick, hot shower. That usually calms your nerves, and maybe by the time you get out he’ll be back.

The water, this time, is not so hot that it burns you. You know your hands will be sore tomorrow, tingling every time you put slight pressure on them. Such are the consequences of reckless, impulsive, anxiety-riddled actions. You don’t wash your hair because you don’t want to deal with drying it once you get out, so you let the water run over your body instead, the comforting warmth easing out yet more tension from your muscles. You know that this wouldn’t have been the case had Ford not shown up. You’d have ended up having a full scale anxiety attack by yourself somewhere in your apartment, and then you’d have showered quickly, sloppily, probably in water too cold or too hot, and you wouldn’t have done a good job of cleaning yourself.

But he is here, and you’re calmer for it, so instead you allow yourself to linger a bit, turning the water off when you hear, at last, the faint sound of your front door opening and shutting again. You towel off and dress yourself in the clothes you pulled out earlier, shuffling back out into the living room feeling much better, though the anxiety is still scratching at your chest, demanding to be acknowledged.

Ford is in your kitchen, at first glance rummaging through your fridge. After a second look you realize he’s trying to organize it. You rush to his side, apologies and offers to help immediately spilling from your lips, but he waves you away. “No,” he says with a tone of finality, the voice he uses to tell you he won’t argue his stance with you. “I can do this. I want you sitting on the couch working on one of your assignments. Go on, now.”

So you follow his order, fetching your laptop from its spot on the counter, when you notice something missing. “Ford?” you ask, unsure of yourself. Did you move them earlier, and just don’t remember? “Did you see any envelopes here?” You indicate the end of the counter, where there’s an empty space now.

He doesn’t look up as he shuffles things around inside your refrigerator. “I took care of them.”

“You what?” You can’t quite believe what you’re hearing. Your cheeks are burning. How pathetic he must think you are, to be unable to pay your bills. “Ford, you didn’t have to do that.”

He pops his head out of the fridge and glances your way, smiling warmly. “I wanted to,” he says reassuringly. “I know that face. You don’t have to worry so much, sweetheart.”

Embarrassed, you turn away, crossing over to the couch and setting your laptop on the coffee table. You sit, burying your face in your hands. “It’s humiliating, having you see me like this,” you mutter, not really addressing him, but he hears nonetheless.

You hear him shut the fridge door, his footsteps coming closer to you. They come to a stop just behind your spot on the couch, and then his hands find your shoulders, rubbing up and down your arms. “It shouldn’t be,” he says softly, and you tilt back your head to look at him. He’s grinning down at you. “It’s okay to let me take care of you, you know.”

You sigh heavily, shutting your eyes. It’s so good to feel him touch you again. Reaching one of your hands up to cover his, you say quietly, “I know.”

He lifts that hand to his lips, kissing it. “Good. What do you want me to make for you? I may not look it, but I’m pretty handy in a kitchen.”

You think about what’s even in your kitchen good enough to make a meal with. If you tell him there’s a box of mac and cheese over the stove he’s going to protest, saying you can trust him with more than that. “Um… I think there’s some chicken in the freezer,” you say unsurely. You honestly don’t know if there is or not. Your freezer is jam-packed with forgotten items. Half eaten tubs of ice cream, frozen waffles, a few stray hot pockets. It’s a mess.

“Raw or precooked?”

“I really don’t know.”

He’s amused, you can hear it in his voice. “I suppose I’ll go find out, then.”

As he lifts his hands away and moves back towards the kitchen you suddenly feel the need to say something. “Ford?” you ask, a little too quickly, springing to your knees on the couch and turning around, grabbing at his sleeve. He pauses, looking quizzically back at you. You swallow hard, pursing your lips. “I love you,” you mumble. It’s been a long time since you've said it.

He sighs and shakes his head, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. He takes a step back towards you and offers you a tight, one-armed hug. “I love you too, you silly thing,” he whispers back, and then he’s gone, back in your kitchen, rummaging through the freezer.

You turn back around, feeling more embarrassed than ever for some godforsaken reason, and turn your attention back to your laptop, opening it up and finding the article for your Philosophy class. Behind you, you can hear Ford muttering to himself, debating whether to do this or that. He runs the water in the sink for a long time, and you hear him clattering a few pots or pans onto the counter. But you don’t turn around to see what exactly he’s doing.

You finish your philosophy assignment fairly quickly. It’s an article on theology, and covers a rather broad topic. Writing a couple of paragraphs in response is easy. You know Ford told you to only do one assignment, but he’s still puttering about the kitchen and you want to keep going. It feels good to get things done, to cross them off your mental checklist. So you move on to the Native American Studies worksheet, filling the answers out discreetly. You don’t want Ford to know you’re disobeying orders, even though what you’re doing is technically good for you, in the grand scheme of things. But it’s a rebellion nonetheless.

Just before you begin that one, a repetitive banging noise comes from your kitchen, startling you, but you still don’t turn around. You kind of want to be surprised. You’re curious as to what he’s going to do. He’s cooked for you before, sort of, at the Shack, but that was pasta. Anyone can make pasta. It sounds like he’s making something a little more sophisticated than that. After a few minutes the banging noise ceases.

You finish the next assignment too, and Ford is still in the kitchen, though he’s back at the sink, handwashing a few things he used to make dinner now. There’s something in your oven, which thankfully still works, and whatever it is smells heavenly. Like pizza and not, at the same time.

You make to get up, but you hear Ford’s harsh voice. “No! It’s not ready yet!”

His outburst is so unexpected, so childish, you collapse back onto the couch, giggling. He must be excited. You understand. You’re excited too.

It really is just so good to have him back.

 

Since you seem to have been banned from getting up off the couch, you settle back in and watch an old kid’s movie on Netflix until Ford finally announces, with all the pride of a child showing off an A on a difficult test, that dinner is ready.

You set aside your computer and stand, Ford allowing it this time. You don’t have a kitchen table, so whenever you eat it’s at your counter, and as you turn to see what Ford has been working on, your eyes widen.

You’re more than a little impressed, you must admit. It’s chicken, for sure, but it’s covered in melted mozzarella and topped with what looks like pepperonis. “What is this?” you ask, finally cracking a wide-lipped grin and sitting yourself down. God, it smells even better now that it’s out of the oven. Ford sits next to you, running a hand across your back as he passes you to reach his seat.

“I don’t really have a name for it,” he says, setting a fork and knife next to your plate. “It’s chicken wrapped around basil, pepperoni, mozzarella, and pizza sauce. I had to improvise.”

“I have basil?” you ask, slightly impressed with yourself. You don’t remember buying it. It sounds sophisticated, though, like something a real adult would have in their kitchen.

“It was near the back of your sad excuse for a spice cupboard, but yes,” Ford chuckles. “Well, give it a try, then.”

You comply eagerly. It’s been weeks since you’ve had a true meal, something prepared and cooked, rather than just microwavable dinners or ramen cups.

You melt with the first bite. “Oh my god.”

“You like it?” Ford asks, visibly pleased.

“I’m in love.”

Ford makes a face of mock fear. “Don’t tell me a meal is going to steal your affections from me.”

You would respond, but your mind is a bit too preoccupied with the food to be witty, so you merely laugh and have another bite. Ford starts in on his, and for a long time the room falls into comfortable silence, both of you enjoying his cooking. It is nice, to have him sitting next to you, his shoulder touching yours. You don’t need words to enjoy his company.

After a couple minutes of eating in comfortable silence, you feel Ford’s eyes on you, watching you. You turn to meet his gaze. “What?” you ask.

He smiles, undaunted by being caught. “It’s good to see you again,” he says fondly, reaching out a hand to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “Being out on the ocean with Stanley was good – better than either of us could have hoped for, I think – but I missed you like there was a hole in my chest. I thought about you so often that it got to the point Stanley would tease me whenever I fell silent for more than a minute or two, knowing exactly where my mind was.”

You bite your lip and smile, your cheeks turning red. He always knows what to say to make you blush.

“I’m so happy to just be here,” he continues, his hand going to your forearm and giving it an affectionate squeeze. “To look at you.” His voice is so soft, so inviting. Hearing it through a telephone was nothing like this. “I love you.”

You turn away, unable to take the amount of emotion welling up from your chest and outward, threatening to manifest as tears. You don’t want him to see you cry again. You don’t say anything, but he understands your silence and returns to the meal. You wipe sloppily at your eyes and take a few more bites until you feel full – it’s been a while since you had something hearty enough to make you feel full like this – and you make to take what’s left to the kitchen to box it up for later when you find the plate being plucked out of your grasp by Ford as he nudges you back towards the living room.

“I can do it,” you protest, but Ford merely shakes his head.

“Not tonight. I’m taking care of you tonight, and you’re going to continue to let me,” he grins cheekily, edging you out of the kitchen. “Go pick a movie. I’ll be there in a minute.”

You sigh exaggeratedly, letting him know you resent being treated like a child before doing as he says. You scroll through movies on an account your parents have that you leech off of, settling on an old film Ford has talked about before but you've never seen. It looks interesting enough. It’s incredibly long, too, which gives you an excuse to snuggle up with Ford for a good three hours at least, and by then it’ll be late enough you might be able to convince him to stay the night.

You hear Ford leave the kitchen and expect him to be at your side within seconds, and are rather shocked to hear his footsteps proceed down the hall before you hear the sound of your washing machine being pulled open.

Your laundry. You’d forgotten all about it. You sit there frozen, humiliated, unsure of whether to go and help, take care of it, or whether it’s pointless to do so since Ford may very well chase you back to the couch anyway.

You sit there, indecisive, for so long that the decision is made for you. You hear your dryer door shut and then the gentle hum of the machine. God, your boyfriend not only has paid your bills for you and made you dinner, now he’s doing your laundry too. Are you so helpless? You bury your face in your hands, not wanting to see Ford’s face when he reappears in the living room. He’s so good, and you’re practically useless.

You hear your name on his lips and know he’s returned. His gaze is on you, you can feel it as tangibly as you would his fingers were tracing your skin. “Yeah?” you mumble.

The couch shifts and you feel his body next to yours. “Why are you hiding?” he chuckles, and his hands pull at your wrists, prying your hands away from your face. “It was just towels and socks, you know,” he says, guessing at the reason for your newest of humiliations. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“I just… I can take care of things myself,” you say weakly, unsure of how to explain yourself to him.

“Of course you can,” Ford says without hesitation. He wraps an arm around you and you rest your head on his shoulder. “I know that. But I’ve been away for a while and I want to spoil you. I like to take care of you. Okay?”

You shut your eyes and let out a long breath. Maybe you don’t have so much to be embarrassed about after all. “Okay.”

He plants a kiss to your brow. “You’re so good,” he whispers, then reaches for the remote. “So,” he says, amused. “ _Dr. Zhivago_ , huh?”

“I want to see it,” you say innocently, and Ford laughs.

“Well, who am I to protest one of the classics?” He presses play and settles into the couch. You nestle into his side, shutting your eyes briefly as the opening credits roll. Ford is here, and you are safe and calm, at last. The world is stable again.

Ford wraps his arms around you, drawing you closer. He shifts his position so your head is on his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat in your ear. You can feel your own heartbeat matching his.

And finally, as you settle in for a lazy evening at last with the man you love, things seem very manageable.

You’re going to be fine.


End file.
